Nicholas Meyer (20 page)

"You refer to 'something untoward.' You had no suspicion of foul play?"

"I did not know what to think. She was gone—" the Baroness broke off helplessly, accompanied by a little bird-like gesture. It was easy to see she was overcome not only by the experience but by the mere recollection of it. Nevertheless, Holmes persisted.

"And the police were unable to discover the whereabouts of your maid?"

She shook her head, then impulsively seized the inert hands of the other woman and pressed them with affection.

"Dear girl, how relieved I am to find you!"

"May one enquire in what manner your husband met his death?" Holmes asked, eyeing her intently.

The Baroness coloured violently once more and looked from one to the other of us in considerable confusion. "His heart," she said simply, in a voice almost too low to carry. I coughed to cover my own confusion, while Holmes rose to his feet.

"I am sorry to hear it. Well, it appears our business here is finished, Watson," said he, easily, and, I thought, with little feeling. "We have solved our little mystery." He held out his hand for Nora Simmons. "Madame, we are sorry to have intruded upon your grief and valuable time."

"But surely you are not taking her from me!" the Baroness cried, rising as well. "I have only just regained her, and I assure you, Mr. Holmes, she is essential to my happiness."

"In her present condition she could hardly be of use to you," Holmes observed drily. "She needs care more than is able to care for others." Again he extended his hand.

"Oh, but I shall care for her myself," the lady protested emphatically. "Have I not said that she is my companion as well as my servant?" There was something so piteous in her supplications that I was on the point of agreeing with her and professing as much to Holmes, for loving attention can sometimes effect a cure where medicine is helpless. But he spoke abruptly.

"I am afraid such a solution is quite impossible at present, as your maid is under the care of Dr.

Sigmund Freud at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus; we have taken a great liberty, as it is, in bringing her to this place without his proper consent. I would not have done so had I not felt an identification was of the utmost moment."

"But—"

"On the other hand, it is just possible that I can persuade the doctor to release the woman into your custody. In Providence you no doubt involved yourself in church work among the destitute and

homeless?"

"I was very active in parish work of that sort," the Baroness agreed hastily.

"I thought as much. You may rest assured I will communicate that fact to Dr. Freud and he will no doubt consider it when the time comes to decide upon the proper disposition of his patient."

She would have made reply, but Holmes was smoothly insistent and we took our leave, bearing away with us the unfortunate maid.

Our fiacre was waiting for us where we had left it, and as we climbed inside Holmes allowed himself a fit of silent laughter.

"A very excellent performance, Watson. One in which sheer nerve and ingenuity were matched with the consummate artistry of an Ellen Terry. Of course they were prepared for this sort of eventuality. The woman has been cleverly coached."

"She is an impostor, then?" It seemed almost impossible to believe that magnificent creature a fraud, but Holmes nodded wearily, spilling some charred fragments of tobacco from his pipe as he jerked his head in the direction of our passenger.

"This wretched woman is the
bona fide
Baroness Von Leinsdorf—for all the good it will do her," he added solemnly. "Yet we may, before this business is done, be able to restore some of her rights, if not her sanity."

"How do you know the other is lying?"

"You mean what gave her away—in addition to that preposterous tale of the maid fleeing the house without notice because the master succumbs to heart failure?"

I nodded, and said I had not found the story so very unlikely.

"Perhaps there was some connection between the events of which we are unaware that would help to clarify her actions," I pursued, warming to the theory that had been slowly taking shape in my mind.

"Perhaps—"

"Perhaps," he agreed, smiling. "Yet there are certain facts which strongly favour the conclusions I have already drawn."

There was something so convincing about the Baroness in the person of that splendid woman, and something so unlikely about our own demented candidate for that role, and something so irritatingly self-assured about my companion's manner (when less than a week before he himself had been little better than a raving lunatic—whole once more through my own intervention on his behalf), that it nettled me more than it might have six months earlier in London, to hear him speak so

condescendingly.

"And what are these facts?" I demanded sceptically.

"It might interest you to know," he answered, handing over the telegram he had received earlier in the day and ignoring the hostile tone in my voice, "that the Slaters of Rhode Island have, for more than two hundred years, belonged to the religious sect known as Quakers. Quakers do not attend church; they go to meeting. And they certainly would not refer to charity work as parish work. No, no, certainly not,"

he added, turning away to gaze out of the window.

This time I was unable to conceal my surprise, but before I had the chance to articulate it he spoke again, still idly glancing about him: "And, incidentally, I have just recalled where we saw Count Von Schlieffen before."

"Count who?"

"Von Schlieffen; the gentleman who passed us as we came in. His picture appeared * in the Times some months ago. Didn't you see it? If my memory serves, he had just been named chief of the German General Staff."

*Not in a photograph, of course. In 1891 Count Von Schliefien's picture appeared in the Times as a sketch.

*13*—Sherlock Holmes Theorizes

Sherlock Holmes stood upon the burgundy hearth rug of the study in Bergasse 19 and leaned his elbows on the mantelpiece behind him. "The will leaves everything to the new Baroness," said he.

Dr. Freud looked up from his notes with a hurt expression.

"If you knew the provisions of the Baron's will, you might have said so," he observed curtly. "As it is, I have missed a patient on your account, as I told you I would. Yet you replied that my going to the registry of wills was of paramount importance."

Holmes laughed in that silent fashion of his and held up a deprecating hand. "You will pardon me, I am sure, Doctor. I was speaking from conviction, not from knowledge. Your morning has not been wasted: your facts have confirmed my suspicions. Yet I take my oath; if my German had been sufficiently fluent, I should never have prevailed upon you to miss a patient. Dr. Watson here will tell you it is not my habit to tear him away from his own practice without good reason. You forgive me? Good!"

So saying, Holmes told Freud of our own excursion. He frowned with disapproval when he learned whither we had taken his patient, but relaxed again when I assured him that neither the house nor its occupants had appeared to make the slightest impression on her.

"The time has now arrived," continued Holmes, fetching forth his disreputable clay—though maintaining his attitude against the mantel—"to marshal our facts and see if they are covered by our theories." He paused to extract a warm coal from the fire with the tongs, and light his pipe. "Let me ask you one final question, however, before I pronounce my case complete. What manner of man is

Germany's new Kaiser?"

"He's been Kaiser since 1888," I put in. Holmes nodded but kept his eyes fastened on Freud, who was considering the question with a speculative air.

"If I were forced to use one word, I should refer to him as immature," said he at length.

"What of his policies?"

"They revolve for the most part around social legislation. He is deathly afraid of socialism; and his foreign relations are inclined—so far as I can determine by reading the papers—to truculence, particularly towards Russia, over such issues as property rights in the Balkans."

"His nature?"

"That is more difficult. He is bright, apparently, but excitable, given to fits of impatience with those around him. I believe it was one of those conflicts that resulted in the dismissal of Prince Von Bismarck. The Kaiser is fond of military displays—of uniforms, parades, and demonstrations of personal power. He—" Freud hesitated with a short laugh.

"Yes?"

"Actually, I have had a theory about the Kaiser for some time now."

"I should be most interested in hearing it," Holmes offered politely, without hesitation.

"It is hardly subtle." Freud rose brusquely to his feet as though annoyed with himself for having mentioned the theory.

"Pray allow me to judge its relevance to my case," Holmes insisted, pressing his finger-tips together and leaning back against the mantel, the pipe clenched between his teeth and smoke curling upwards in a steady spiral.

Freud shrugged. "You may have known—either from seeing pictures of him or from reading on the subject—that the Kaiser possesses a withered arm."

"A withered arm?"

"The result of some childhood disease—possibly poliomyelitis. I am not certain. In any case, physically he is not a complete man." Here Freud paused and eyed me askance. "You are the first to hear this peculiar notion of mine."

Holmes regarded him behind the pipe smoke. "Go on."

"Well—briefly—it has occurred to me that perhaps the Kaiser's insistent emphasis on displays of strength, his love of colourful uniforms—particularly those with cloaks which manage to conceal his deformity—the parades, the medals with which he adorns himself—it has occurred to me that these bellicose loves are all in some way manifestations of his feelings of personal inadequacy. They might all be construed as elaborate compensations for the withered arm. An ordinary cripple need not feel so sensitive as he, moreover, for he is the king and descendant of a long line of conspicuously noble and heroic ancestors."

I was so utterly absorbed in the doctor's statement that I forgot Holmes was in the room. When Freud had finished, I shifted my gaze and saw that Holmes was regarding him with fixed attention and wonder in his expression. Slowly, Holmes sank into the chair opposite mine.

"This is most remarkable," said he, finally. "Do you know what you have done? You have succeeded in taking my methods—observation and inference—and applied them to the inside of a subject's head."

"Scarcely a subject." Freud smiled shortly. "In any event your methods—as you refer to them—are not covered by a patent, I trust?" His tone was mild, yet the satisfaction in it was evident. Like Holmes, he was not without vanity. "Yet what I have surmised may prove totally erroneous. You yourself have noted the dangers of reasoning with insufficient data at one's disposal."

"Remarkable," Holmes echoed. "Not only does it possess the ring of truth—or of plausibility, if you prefer—it also conforms to certain facts and theories I shall now lay before you." He got to his feet once more, but paused, distracted, before commencing. "Remarkable. You know, Doctor, I shouldn't be surprised if your application of my methods proves in the long run far more important than the mechanical uses I make of them. But always remember the physical details. No matter how far into the mind you may travel, they are of supreme importance."

Sigmund Freud nodded and bowed, slightly overcome, I think, by the detective's abrupt and effusive praise.

"Now, then," Holmes resumed, his thoughts collected, "let me tell you a story." He relit his pipe as the doctor settled himself into an attitude of attention. Like the detective, Sigmund Freud was a great listener, though indeed the two men showed their absorption in a client's statement in entirely different fashions. Freud did not listen with his eyes closed and his finger-tips pressed together. On the contrary, he leaned his bearded cheek on an open palm, propped his elbow on the arm of his chair, threw one leg across the other, and watched whoever was speaking with wide, sad, steadfast eyes. Even the cigar which he held in his other hand could not make him squint with its pungent smoke. At such times he gave the impression of peering directly into one's soul, an impression that Holmes, a sensitive observer, could not fail to grasp, as he launched into his story.

"A wealthy widower with an only son he does not care for particularly—and who does not care for him

—goes travelling to the United States. There he meets a young woman half his age, yet in spite of this disparity (or perhaps because of it), they fall in love. Knowing that his own years are numbered they are married without delay. The woman comes from a well-to-do Quaker background and the two are joined together in a Quaker church, known as a 'meeting house.' This phrase, later mumbled by our client, was understood as 'meat-house,' and in that connexion mistakenly associated itself with our hypothetical warehouse and literally put us off the scent for a time.

"The couple returns to the isolated home of the husband in Bavaria, where the first thing the bridegroom does is to alter his will in favour of his bride. Her religious views on the subject, as well as his own convictions, advancing with the years, make it impossible for him to retain control of an empire dedicated to the manufacture of war material. Having neither the strength nor the inclination to devote his last years to the dismantling of his factories, he very simply puts the entire matter into her hands in the event of his death, to do with as she sees fit.

"The old gentleman, however, has not reckoned with—or has badly underestimated—the wrath of his prodigal son. Finding his hopes cut off, cut off literally from untold millions, this young devil proves capable of drastic steps to regain them. Politically conservative himself, and raised in the New Germany, he possesses certain connexions and he uses them. Offers are made to certain people, people who have no intention of allowing a foreign commoner—much less a woman!—to dismantle the core of the Kaiser's war machine. The young man is given
carte blanche
, and is no doubt assigned some help. We have yet to discover how it was managed, but he somehow accomplishes the death of his father—"